


The Vanilla Icing Affair

by FlyingMachine



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Humor, Valley Forge is a pit, no espionage actually happens, there is cake though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 06:30:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6107998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyingMachine/pseuds/FlyingMachine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>February 25, 1778: after Ben returns from weeks on patrol, Caleb and Mr. Sackett celebrate his birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Vanilla Icing Affair

Ben had lost track of what day it was, the weeks in the field blurring into cold, gray monotony. Eighteen straight days of active picket duty had left Ben exhausted, worn down from constant patrols and skirmishes. His dragoons looked as tired as he felt, pale-faced and half-frozen in filthy uniforms. 

Valley Forge was hardly a comfortable camp, but Ben was glad to sleep on something other than the frozen ground, without the constant fear of ambush. Ben’s bunk was as neat as he’d left it and he sank into it gratefully. He pulled his boots off and removed his coat, frowning at the poor state of his uniform. 

Dragging with fatigue, he scrubbed his face and hands with cold water from the shared bucket, wishing for the luxury of a true, hot bath. He sank into his cot, aching from the days on horseback and sleeping rough. He wrapped himself in his blanket, pulling it up to his nose. He felt warm for the first time in weeks in the close quarters of the officers’ hut. Heat from the fire soaked into his back, and he slept.

 

Something touched his shoulder and Ben bolted awake, reaching for his pistol before he’d fully opened his eyes. His fingers brushed leather instead, and he blinked until his eyes adjusted to the dimness in the hut. Caleb Brewster looked down at him.

“Caleb?” he croaked. He felt as though he’d barely slept. “What’s wrong?”

“Sorry to wake you Ben, but Mr. Sackett said he needed to speak with you. Says it’s urgent,” Caleb said. Ben groaned and pulled his blanket over his head. “Should I tell him his head of intelligence is busy hiding under his blanket?” Caleb asked.

“No,” Ben sighed, muffled by the blanket. He sat and scrubbed his hands over his face, pushing his hair out of his eyes. He reached for his boots, still caked with mud. His tired muscles had stiffened painfully while he slept and his stomach reminded him that he’d eaten nothing since he’d returned from the field. He slipped back into his coat and retied his neckcloth, hoping he looked more presentable than he felt. 

“You look terrible, Benny,” Caleb said, looking him over.

“No worse than the rest of the army. What day is it?” Ben asked as they walked to Sackett’s hut, still feeling disoriented. Caleb raised an eyebrow in amusement.

“February twenty-fifth. You didn’t know?” he asked, surprised.

“I wasn’t exactly keeping track,” Ben said. Caleb knocked on Sackett’s door. It cracked open, revealing Sackett’s spectacles and suspicious expression. When he saw Ben and Caleb, his face cracked into a smile.

“Ah, Major, back from your long deployment?” he asked, stepping back to let them in.

“For now,” Ben said. “Caleb said you needed me. Has something happened?” Sackett lit several candles on his desk, brightening the small room. Sackett’s writing table had been cleared of its usual stacks of paper and was instead set for dinner, with several dishes containing more food than Ben had seen in weeks. 

“What’s this about?” Ben asked. Caleb’s arm landed across his shoulders, steering him toward the table.

“Poor Benny, you nearly missed your own birthday,” Caleb said, grinning. With a start, Ben realized Caleb was right. He was twenty-four years old today. He’d completely forgotten. His friends, however, had not. 

“With all due respect, Major, I did not cook all of this for us to sit here and admire it,” Mr. Sackett said. 

“You made all this?” Ben asked, incredulous. 

“A favor for a friend,” Sackett said, glancing at Caleb. 

“Mr. Sackett’s a man of many talents,” Caleb said.

Ben took a chair, Caleb and Sackett joining him at the table. Caleb filled his glass with what Ben recognized as a very expensive port. Given the flush on his friend’s cheeks, Ben guessed Caleb had already been sampling a little. After a steady diet of cold firecakes and stringy rabbit, Ben thought Sackett’s simple supper might have been the best thing he’d ever tasted. 

The food didn’t last long, and they were deep into the wine when Caleb held up a finger. 

“There is one more thing,” he said, pronouncing each word very carefully. He pointed at Sackett, who was contemplating his wine with a serious expression. 

“Oh, yes,” Sackett said, shuffling over to a corner cabinet. He removed its contents and sat a small plate on the table in front of Ben. The plate contained a tiny cake, dripping with icing. Ben’s had drunk enough that everything was pleasantly fuzzy, and something tugged hard in his chest. He looked from Caleb to Sackett, feeling lost for words.

“Go on,” Caleb encouraged. “I had to trade an excellent bottle of whiskey and a set of good silver to get that cake. The camp baker drives a hard bargain.” Ben tore off a chunk and chewed thoughtfully, before he nearly choked. It tasted nothing like any cake should, gritty and full of salt. He took a gulp of wine, washing the whole mess down.  
“It’s awful,” he said. Caleb and Sackett exchanged a long glance, and Ben had opened his mouth to apologize for his ingratitude when he noticed Caleb’s shoulders shaking with repressed laughter.

“Oh Ben, I’m sorry,” Caleb said, sounding truly remorseful despite his laughter. “I don’t know why I thought our humble baker would be able to make a sweet cake after baking nothing but soldiers’ bread all winter.” 

Sackett was laughing now too, tears streaming from under his spectacles. He reached over and pinched a bite of cake, making a face as he chewed.

“That is truly disgusting,” he said, handing it off to Caleb, who finished the cake without comment. He drained his glass and laid a hand on Ben’s arm, suddenly serious. 

“If we survive this war Ben, I owe you a cake,” Caleb said earnestly, and Ben knew he was drunk. “But in the meantime, I still have three bottles of this port that need to disappear by morning."

**Author's Note:**

> I was doing research for something else and read that February 25 is Ben Tallmadge's birthday, so I wrote this silly thing.


End file.
